Technicalities
by Quae
Summary: Harry is undeniably in love with Ron, but thinks "there are too many technicalities for it to work." What will it take to change his mind? Features EloquentSentimental!Harry and Wise!Ron.
1. Chapter I: Letters and Longing

Chapter I: Letters & Longing

"I love you."

I wish it were as simple as that. But no, it's always so much more complicated. I can't just walk up to my best friend and say, "I love you Ron," and have everything turn out just fine, the happily ever after of fairy tales.

Yes. I, Harry James Potter, am in love with you, Ronald Bilius Weasley. But there are too many technicalities for it to ever work. 

You happen to be a guy, like me. And you, unlike me, happen to like girls, if Fleur was anything to go by. Or Hermione, for that matter—you two bicker a quite a bit for "just friends."

You happen to have a life besides me and my stupid adventures that get you hurt, and I don't want to wreck that.

You also happen to be beautiful and you happen to deserve better than me.

Despite all this, I'm hopelessly in love with you.

I don't know how I'm going to survive this year . . . every time I look at your flaming red hair, see a strand in your eyes, I'll want to run my hands through it, tenderly tuck it behind your ears and drop a kiss on your forehead. Every time I catch a glimpse of your freckled skin, I'll have to look away, just so I won't reach out a hand and stroke your velvet cheek, run my thumb over your stubborn jaw. Every time you say a word, I'll close my eyes in a vain attempt to block out your beautiful voice. And every time you're in the same room as me, I'll wish you were mine and I yours.

A tapping at the window brings me out of my thoughts. Hedwig. With a sweet smile, I open the window. "Hey old girl. How was your hunt?"

Fondly, I stroke her wing feathers, and she blinks then hoots softly. It's our greeting ritual, sort of. Whenever she comes back from a hunt, I run my fingers through her soft feathers. Down her wings, then up again, tracing a path around one of her eyes and inching downwards towards her chest, which I lay my hand on. My beautiful snowy Hedwig.

I smile again, and lead her over to her perch, by the window sill. I made it at the beginning of the summer. Nothing much; a sturdy pole with a few branches nailed to it and food and water dishes. The Dursleys don't know about it: every time they come in, I cover it with my invisibility cloak. Not my own magic, so I can use it.

Hedwig hoots softly in gratitude, bringing me back to the world, then alights gently on the branch next to the food and water. She takes a long drink, then holds out her clawed foot. Only then do I notice the letter. I take it from her carefully, eyebrows raised. She turns back to the dish, and I flop down on my bed, tearing open the letter.

_Dear Harry,_

Ron here. Hullo, how are you doing? Are the muggles treating you all right? They'd had better be, or I'll send over one of Fred and George's Ton-Tongue Toffees for your cousin! Haha!

I've decided to improve my writing skills this year, so be ready to read painfully long and boring letters from me. I'll be writing my attempts to you, hope you don't mind, mate.

Summer's awfully boring so far here at the Burrow. It's too quiet for my house. There's always something going on with one of us—_Fred and George making explosions in their room, or trying out something on Percy, Ginny, or me and Percy yelling back at them, Ginny screaming, and me just throwing things at them. But Fred and George are gone for a week, so it's quiet here.   
And guess what? Percy's moving out to share a flat with Oliver. You know, Oliver Wood, Quidditch Captain?_

I had a long talk with Percy the other day, in which he apologized for being so . . . alienating sometimes. You know, cauldron thickness and stuff? He says he just wasn't sure he wanted to show everyone what he was really like. He's not really such a prick, you know. He just acted that way because he thought that was the way we wanted him to be.

Anyway, it was nice talking with him. I got to know him a lot better. I'm happy for him and Oliver (like the rest of my family), but it makes me kind of . . . jealous. Yeah, I know---rubbish, right?---but I want to know what love's like, too. He and Oliver always seem so happy together, and I can't help wondering what it feels like. Ugh, sorry Harry, that sounds horrible and girly, but I promised myself I wouldn't scratch anything out.

Anyway, Ginny isn't here either. She's over at a friend's vacation house for a week. Dad's always at work these days, so it's basically just me and mum. Kinda lonely actually. 

I've already finished all my summer homework. I know, I know. How unlike myself, huh? As I was saying, I've finished all my homework (I was BORED, okay?) And I've taken to reading.  
Even though Hermione's fanatic about it, it's really not bad at all. I like reading quite a bit. I've read tons of good books already. You would like reading if you got into it and those stupid relatives of your could gave you any money or a library card. I dug mine out when I was done with my homework; I've been borrowing from the library in the town.

I know this author you might like. Mercedes Lackey. She is bloody good! Muggle fantasy writer, at that, but some of her ideas of magic are really neat. She has a really wonderful writing style and an her descriptions are great. You really should read her book, Magic's Pawn. It's great.

But I'm sounding more boring by the second, and that's how I feel—_you couldn't possibly come and stay early this year? Mum says you're welcome to, in fact she told me to tell you to hurry and ask Dumbledore if you could._

Anyway, I'm rambling, so I'll stop here, and you should feel grateful to receive the longest letter I have ever written. Kidding!

Love,  
Ron

I trace the name over lovingly with my fingers. _Love, Ron_. The phrase echos through my mind, giving me a warm feeling from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. _Love, Ron_. I read the letter over again, smile quietly growing. 

God, Ron. You don't know how much I love you. I don't think even I can fathom it. I love everything about you. All your little quirks; the way you cross your eyes ever-so-slightly when you concentrate on something with all your being; the way you tilt your head to the side when you learn something new that interests you; the way you crack your knuckles just about every other minute; all of your little subconscious actions.

Not to mention the rest of you.

I pick up a pen and snatch a piece of paper from the stack beneath my bed and begin a letter to you.

**Dear Ron,  
Life in**

The Smallest Bedroom  
Number Four, Privet Drive  
Little Whinging

is nothing out of the ordinary. I still wake up every morning to my aunt's screeching and my uncle's roar-grunts. You'd think I live in a zoo or something, the way they go on . . . my aunt could be the giraffe, with her ten-meter-long neck, my cousin could be the pig in the Petting Zoo (he certainly weighs as much!), and my uncle could be the rhinoceros, always pawing the ground and charging at things. And I could charge admission for people to see them; I'd call it: "Harry's Freak Zoo." You think I'd make any money?

All your homework done already? I'm almost jealous. When I come to stay, I'll be slaving away on my homework when we could be doing fun stuff! Ah well. As Fleur would say, "Ce la vie; zat ees ze life."

God, Ron, I'd LOVE to come and stay early if possible. Your house is more like a home to me than this hole, if I may say. I'll ask Dumbledore when I'm done with your letter, all right?

Give Oliver and Percy my congratulations! I always thought they'd make a cute couple, and I did wonder about those extra long showers Oliver took after Quidditch . . . (wink wink). I'm glad for Percy and Oliver, too, they both deserve it.

Gasp! The Great Ronald Weasley actually touched a _book_? Your Majesty, I'm shocked. Snicker, just kidding. Hermione will definitely be pleased—**maybe you can lend me some good books when I come to stay? I used to have a library card for my old school, but somehow I don't think it'd be welcome anymore. I always like the fantasy books, but Hogwarts never had any good muggle books to borrow. I recall I really liked the Lord of the Rings books, though**—**you read them yet?**

Ron, on the love note. Don't worry about it. Everyone wonders what love's like and wants to know—**and don't worry, I won't tell Hermione about your moment of "girliness" as you call it, or she might squeal. **

Anyway, you won't have to wait long. Soon you'll meet someone, and fall in love, and then you'll see it. I warn you, though, it's not all happy-sappy notes and powdery hearts. Sometimes love is hard.

Anyways, I've got to run, ask Dumbledore don'cha know, and sorry my letter's so short (I feel so inadequate compared to you!) but I'm not the best writer on earth.

Love,  
Harry

P.S. Give your mum my regards.

I pause only a moment before picking up another piece of paper.

**Dear Professor Dumbledore,**

I'm sorry to bother you with this letter, but I had a request I was wondering if you might fulfil. 

If it's to much trouble, don't bother. However, if you've taken your time to read this, my question is this: is it possible in any way for me to stay with the Weasleys earlier this year? I know that there are special protections on the house, but knowing you, Professor, you've probably put similar ones on the Weasley's house, too, and if not, then I would understand, but please, please please please consider it. I really miss Ron. And his family.

Sincerely,  
Your Student, H. J. Potter

"Hedwig?" I ask, turning my eyes toward her. She turns her own optics on me and I continue. "When you've rested enough, would you deliver these?" I wave the letters in the air, and she nods, hoots, and gazes at me for a moment, then holds out her leg.

"You're sure?" A hoot. I smile in relief, tears coming to my eyes for some reason. "Love you, old girl. And would you . . . would you see that he's alright?" She knows I mean you. I worry about you, you know. She's watched me pace many a night in pensive thought about whether Voldemort will go after you or not. I think my owl is more than just an animal, because she looks at me with soulful amber eyes and hoots softly. I nod, one tear sliding down my cheek.

I love you.


	2. Chapter II: Nightly Deliberation

Chapter II: Midnight Musings

It's 12:32, and for some reason I just can't fall asleep.

My mind is filled with thoughts, fluttering about too fast for me to catch one. That brings back memories of First Year and the whole Sorcerer's Stone ordeal, and Flitwick's room of charmed keys, glittering and darting from wall to wall. One thought stands out among the rest, like the crippled key that led to McGonagal's chess set.

_Voldemort._

God, Ron. There are so many feelings attached to him. Uncertainty, disbelief, horror, fury, confusion, dread, fear . . .

Yes, fear. Would you believe it? I'm scared. I'm scared as hell, and not stupid enough to believe that hero always lives, not stupid enough to believe that nothing tragic could ever happen to me again, not stupid enough to believe in some mystical power inherited from the Potter line that will save me from certain death. Not stupid enough anymore.

Besides, it's not me I'm worried about. It's my family that I worry about.

I worry about Professor Dumbledore. Sure, he may be one of the most powerful wizards of our time. And he may have defeated Grindelwald. And he may be the only thing Voldemort fears.

But, despite all this, he's only human. One day, he _will _die—that thought makes me panicky, but it _is_ true. And I'm afraid that when he does, the world will fall apart. Because he is a pillar of strength. He is a reminder that we shouldn't let anyone control our lives. He is the one person everyone respects, in some way or another. He stands strong and never falters, and the wizarding world is held together by the knowledge that such a powerful person exists. His job may be harder than mine. And I'm afraid if he dies, panic will rise. He's always been really nice to me, too . . . I wouldn't want him anywhere but Hogwarts . . .

I worry about Hogwarts. Hogwarts, like Dumbledore, is a comforting thought, a place to think of when you need to be cheered, because Hogwarts is safe, safer even than Gringotts. To the parents of the students, Hogwarts is the safest place their children, a safe hold and one less thing to worry about. To the children, Hogwarts is like a second home, and their friends as close as if they were brothers and sisters.

If Hogwarts is destroyed, the future of the wizarding world lies untrained, scared, and holed up in their homes with their parents torn between helping the cause and saving their children. Friendships and love will die on the spot.

I worry about our friends. Seamus, Dean, Neville, Ginny, Fred, George . . . I worry about them more than is necessary. Every time Seamus and Dean are playing exploding snap, I wonder if it'll be the last game they play. Whether they know how much they mean to each other. Like you and me . . . I wonder how many times Seamus will ever laugh again, and I wonder when Dean's drawings will start to be sad.

Every time Fred and George pull a prank, I wonder if it will be their last. What would we do without their jokes? If something happens, will the Gryffindor Common Room be silent where once there was laughter? They're my surrogate brothers—what would _I_ do without them?

Every time Neville loses a point, I try to smile at him reassuringly in fear we've ignored him too much. He's always so quiet. Have we been good friends to him? I want to make sure we have, because it might get too late.

And every time your sister looks at me, I worry about whether she'll ever get to experience any of life. We're all so young, and yet some of us are too old . . . maybe in the future, they'll call us the children of the War.

I worry about whether anything will ever be the same.

I worry about Sirius. I feel so angry when I think about him. He's been cheated of most of his life, what with thirteen years in Azkaban, and three years running from the law. And, now, even though his name's never been cleared, he's an adamant fighter on the side of the Light, who betrayed him once already. 

He's the only father I've ever known . . . he's always there when I need him the most. What will I do if something happens to him . . . ?

I worry about Hermione. God, Ron, I worry about her so badly. Every time I look at her and imagine what might happen to her, I nearly cry. I love her, like a sister, and I'm not sure I could live without her. She's like an extension of me, an extension of you, and we are extensions of her, because the three of us have formed a bond so tight and close it's unbreakable. 

Our Hermione . . . our sweet Hermione. To others, she may be a know-it-all, and a stuck up muggle-born who studies too much, but to me, and to you . . . she is so much more. She is as fast as quicksilver when she wants to be, and brilliantly smart. She knows just when you and I need her and just when we want to be left alone. She has a wry sense of humor and knows how to get what she wants in a firm, forceful way. She has such a warmth to her, such a love of life . . . and, hell, Ron, she's a part of me. I . . . I don't know what I'd . . . do . . .

But most. Most I worry about you.

I have nightmares, you know. Nightmares filled with horror, terror, blood, and desperation, nightmares filled with primal panic, and nightmares filled with screams and screams and screams. Wizards' screams, muggles' screams, my screams. They are nearly always different, and when I wake up, the only thing I can remember is the screams and the scent of fear, thick and heavy in the air. But the worst nightmares I always remember, because they are always the same . . .

In the worst nightmares, everyone is dead or dying on the ground. The earth herself has been torn apart at the seams, and dust chokes the air while the ground shakes with tremors. The sky is blood-red, as if the blue river of dawn has been overrun by blood. I am bleeding, too, but I don't pay any attention, because I am wading through a sea of bodies toward Voldemort. I've cried all my tears, because everyone I care about is dead except for you, and the only thing that matters is finding you. I struggle through the dying, searching every face for yours, fear that you have died welling up in my heart . . .

Then, I am suddenly I am there; where you are, that is. Voldemort turns his blood-eyes toward me, smiles, then throws back his head and laughs; a high, cruel laugh that brings back memories of fleeting green light. You are unconscious in his arms.

All I can do is stand there.

You look for all the world like a lifeless doll. Your skin is waxy and pale, and your hair is stringy, soaked in blood and sweat and plastered to your forehead. I want to leap forward, take you in my arms and hide you away from the world, but I can't move. As I watch, your eyes open, but instead of beautiful blue, I see red, red, red. Blood. All I can think is _/Ron Ron Ron/ _but I am a statue, unmoving. 

"Harry," you croak, and then everything speeds up as Voldemort snaps your back in two, throws you on the ground and laughs, laughs, laughs, and I'm screaming, screaming so loud I'm filling the blood red sky with my anguish and yet my heart is still an endless abyss . . .

If . . . if something happened to you, Ron . . . I would rather be dead.

Along with my fear, which is always there and probably always will be, lurking in a corner of my mind, there is confusion, blind confusion. I just don't _understand _sometimes why someone would want to kill so many people. Why would someone be so angry? Why would someone _do _the things he does? I get so frustrated sometimes, Ron, because I just don't _get _it.

I always feel so damn _useless. _Really, all the "Boy-Who-Lived", Hero, Harry Potter junk isn't me at all. And most of the times I've met Voldemort, it's been luck, Dumbledore, you and Hermione that got me alive and in one piece. I don't know what they expect me to do, and I can't see how I'm helping at all.

12:33. I turn away from the clock and close my eyes with a sigh. Dumbledore sent his letter awhile after I sent yours, and he gave me his permission to go to The Burrow, but I'm too exhausted to be excited.

'Night. I love you.

I've gotten and hour's sleep in the course of the night, and now it's four in the morning, and for some reason I have all my stuff packed and I'm waiting on the curb for the Knight Bus. 

I must be crazy, absolutely _mad _to be out here this early, but instead of worrying me, as this should, it makes me smile giddily. When the 'Bus gets here, I'll be headed for your house, and I don't care if I have to wait on your doorstep until someone wakes up, as long as I can see you later.

I really missed you. I missed seeing you. Your sheepish look, the one you get when Hermione scolds you; you look down, shuffle your feet and look awkward and embarrassed and so cute. And your "crafty" look, where you narrow you eyes and try to look like a detective but end up looking so silly. And your innocent look, when you widen your eyes just so and look up with such a surprised air I almost believe you. And your smile. Your smile is like sunshine, no matter how cliche that sounds. It warms me from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. It makes me want to laugh with joy to see you so happy . . .

The 'Bus rumbles up out of nowhere, and I stand up, hopping on my foot to wake it up, and trying to ignore the pins and needles. I snatch up my bags and Hedwig's cage (earning a reproachful look from amber eyes) as the door opens, and I bound inside.

"Tha'll be firteen sickles, laddy," the driver tells me with a toothless smile. I hand the money over and collapse on one of the beds.

Several jolts and a sick passenger later, the driver calls out, "The Burrow!" and I leap off the bed in anticipation. (Or maybe it was the sudden stop . . . ) I haul my bags off the 'Bus and there it is.

Every time I see your house, I think/ _Home_/. With it hobbledy-cobbledy look, its cozy chimneys, and the homely garden, it looks like heaven to me. And you know what's even better?  
You're inside, sleeping peacefully.

I make my way through the darkness and settle down on your stoop happily to wait for the sun to rise.

I love you so much.


	3. Chapter III: Home Again

Chapter III: Home Again

"Harry?"

Your voice, soft and far away, echoes through my nightmare-world and brings me back to reality. I open my eyes and for a moment I wonder if I dreamed of you calling me; then I remember my journey and snap awake.

You're standing in front of me; and, I have to say, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

You've gotten taller, and more slender. It's given you a willowy look. Your limbs have straightened themselves out a bit, and altogether you look a little different and unfamiliar . . . but you still stand in just the same way, with your feet and toes pointing outward just a smidge and one hand hidden in your pocket.

Your hair is longer—it curls outward just below your ears and a few tendrils frame your face. There are more auburn tints to it, and it doesn't seem quite so bright. Not that this takes away from its charm: on the contrary. I want to touch it even more, to stroke my fingers through the soft firey tendrils that caress your cheeks. I have to remind myself not to.

And your eyes . . . your eyes are older than I have ever seen them. You're not a child anymore; no, those are the eyes of a capable adult. Those beautiful amber eyes hold a tinge of sadness and seriousness, which just makes me love you more.

My Ron . . . oh _gods_, how I've _missed _you . . .

"Ron," I murmur. My voice is soft from disuse. "I'm sorry for the short notice Ron, but . . . "

Then, I remember my nightmares, and that you could have been dead. __

Tears prick my eyes, and relief that you live overpowers me. "I've just . . . I've _missed _you," I whisper absently, willing my tears away. You're alive . . . you're _alive_.I get to see you smile again . . . I get to hear you laugh again . . . I get to watch you crumple with disappointment, swell with triumph . . . I get to grin when you beat me at chess, and sigh when you say something stupid, and be _with _you . . .

"Harry," you say, taking a few steps forward, reaching a hand out hesitantly before laying it on my shoulder. Heat radiates through my shirt, and I can't control my tears; not now that I can truly tell you're alive, and not some phantom. "Harry," you repeat, softly, with something equally soft resting in your eyes. "I . . . I missed you, too."

You take me in your arms, and your warmth surrounds me. I want to cry, Ron . . . I want to sob, and let my tears and troubles be washed away. But I can't. I've trained myself to cry silently, because the only time a "hero" can cry is in the dark, when others are asleep.

Instead, I let myself rest in your arms for a moment, blissfully. I wish you would hold me like this all the time, Ron. I wish you loved me like I love you . . .

I collect myself, and smile, if a bit sadly. If I can't be in your arms as the one you love, I'll be content to be around you, loving you secretly.

Gently, you let me go, keeping your hand on my shoulder. It takes all my will power not to burrow back into your arms, but I remain where I am."Let's go inside," you tell me, smiling. "Mum's cooking breakfast."

I follow you, clutching my trunk, and the reassurance that you are alive fills me. I love you . . . I don't know what I'd do without you.

Your mother is flipping pancakes in the kitchen, humming along to some old tune on the radio. Her hair is coming out in frizzy wisps from its ponytail, and her apron is a quilt of patches, but her happiness makes her beautiful.

"Mum?" you venture quietly.

"Yes, Ron?" she replies, turning around with her wand in hand and her warm brown eyes sparkling. "Was there— _Harry _?"

My lips curl up, and I smile involuntarily. I love your mother. She's always so kind to me, asking me if I'd like anything, am I comfortable, how was my day: you understand, I know. You love her as much as is humanly possible; it's in your eyes every time you look at her. She's always there for you . . . that's what I love most about her.

"Hello, Mrs Weasley," I say. "I'm sorry for the short notice—"

"_Nonsense _, Harry! You're always welcome here!" She beams at me. "I suppose Professor Dumbledore gave you his permission?"

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley."

Putting down her wand, she says, "Welcome back, Harry," and evelopes me in a hug.

I grin through my tears. __

Home. 


	4. Chapter IV: Forever Afternoon

Chapter IV: Hold Back

We're lying on your bed now: books strewn across the floor, frogs in your tank blissfully croaking, flushed after playing around on our brooms earlier.

I'm so happy I can barely breathe, Ron—being back here, it's wonderful. I never told you this, but the stifling feeling I get at the Dursleys completely fades away when I see you, and everything feels a lot brighter now. It doesn't even bother me when I have to push away the urge to touch your hand gently. As long as I'm here with you, I don't care about the nightmares or Voldemort.

"Harry," you begin, a bit breathlessly. We were out for quite awhile, after all. Not that it makes any difference; the edge of huskiness on your voice still makes me shiver.

"Mmm?" I reply, mildly curious and trying to think of something other than you.

"You've never been down to the orchard, right?"

"No, I don't think so." I think carefully, then shake my head. "No."

"Let's go tomorrow, then. There's something . . . well." You trail off, and even though I'm curious, I know you too well to pry: you're awfully closed-mouth about some things. Only one of the things I love about you. 

Of course, I say yes, because it will make you happy. We lie there in the silence, letting the breeze play over us, and I bask in your presence.

"Oh!" I suddenly remember your earlier letter. "Sorry about you not being able to send letters to me anymore. I don't really think you need to improve your writing much, though. It was a perfectly good letter."

I can hear the smile in your voice when you say, "Thanks," and it brings one of my own to my face. You'll never know how happy you make me feel, just being here with you—even the tiny, twisted knot of bitterness and mangled hope that reminds me I'll never be yours can't stop that, Ron.

"So, what next?" you finally ask, happy tone radiating through me. The huge grin I'm wearing fades a bit.

"I've still got homework to do," I mumble reluctantly.

"Rough luck, but it's not too bad," you say back. You sound faintly disappointed.

"Easy for you to say, Mr Scholar," I grumble good-naturedly, trying to lighten the mood. "What _will_ become of me, left behind in the dust by my two brilliant friends?" I moan dramatically, throwing a hand against my forehead like a damsel in distress.

You roar with laughter—the sound sends a rush of warmth through me—and push me off the bed. It doesn't hurt very much, especially not when your wonderful laugh distracts me. I'm grinning hopelessly again; I really missed you.

You sit up, challenging me with sparkling blue eyes and a smile that makes my breath catch. I clear my throat to cover it, and in the lull you say, "How about the library, then?" You still seem a little—reserved? awkward, maybe—about your newfound interest in books. I wish you weren't; I like to read and it's only one more thing we share.

I nod, giving you what I hope is a reassuring smile.

You hop of the bed with a spryness I know you don't realize you own and I slowly push off the ground and follow you downstairs. You turn back to smile at me and once again I have to stop myself from reaching out to grasp your hand between mine. It wold be so simple—your fingers, warm and callused, twined with—

I cut that thought off by biting my lip.

Your steps on the gravel fall into a nice rhythm with mine as we head to the library. I ask which homework assignment was the hardest, and with a scowl, you break into a tirade about Snape.

This lasts us until town—you come up with some really creative insults that have me in stitches—and with a peaceful silence between us, you lead me to the tiny library.

The shelves are crammed with books in a way that makes me laugh quietly. It reminds me of Flourish and Blotts, which is a comforting thought. You wind through the bookcases to a small study table at the back, and I slowly set my stuff down around it.

"I'm going to go look, 'kay?" you ask suddenly, startling me out of my careful preparation. I nod slightly and you disappear into the murky back of the shop. For a moment I feel a total and irrational panic sweep through me like a tornado—I breathe in sharply; this almost _hurts_—I don't know where you are, what if you're in trouble, Ron—I can't find you—

I close my eyes and force myself to calm down. This isn't my nightmare, you'd say if you knew all this. This is real, you would tell me, and you can fend for yourself.

It's _not_ my nightmare and you _can _protect yourself, but, Ron—

Calm down, Harry you idiot, calm down.

I massage my scar lightly, ignoring the writhing mass that is my stomach, and try to start on Potions. At least that takes my whole concentration; I won't be able to panic that you've gone out of my sight like a toddler and his mum.

You come back in a minute or two, and God, Ron, I'm sorry, but I can't help it—I'm so relieved you're back I almost leap up to hold you. I'm managing all right, but I didn't think it'd be so hard to stop myself. I love you . . .

You must have noticed by my expression, because you frown a little, and mutter, "All right, Harry?"

I bite my lip and draw in a big breath. "Fine," I whisper back.

At least the stupid Potions are cooperating now I'm not so worried about you. I glance up every few minutes anyway—your hair if falling softly into your face and your bright eyes are focused on your book so intently it makes me smile. I'm glad I'm back with you, Ron, so glad. With a silent sigh, I force myself to head back to my Potions essay.

Essay finished and Transfiguration conquered, I come out of my homework daze to find you staring at me, a half-smile playing on your lips. I flush—if only you would look at me like that every day—"What is it, Ron? Something on my face?"

You shake your head gently, something I can't make out written subtly on your face. Your eyes are shining and I wish desperately that—no, better not finish that thought.

"No, nothing."

I stare at your cheek because can't bare to meet your blue blue eyes, not risking speech. I know what I _want_ that to mean and it aches that it's not your want, too. 

Not that I'm angry. I don't think I could ever really be mad at you, not after how horribly it turned out last year.

You unfurl out of your seat with sudden fluid motion, and blinking, I follow you more slowly. "It's getting late; Mum'll want us back," you offer as an explanation, a funny flat taste to your words. Trying to contain a slight twinge of worry (sorry, I can't seem to _help_ it now that I've got your lovely eyes within my sight to protect), I pack up my books and we wend our way back.

Dinner is delicious, but it is awfully quiet without anyone but us here. Your Mum prods a conversation into the air, so I listen happily as you two debate Wizard bands. While you're telling your mum fiercely that "Weird Sisters is as good a name as any!" I quietly slip in the living room to start on my homework again.

I want as much time alone with you as I can get, even if it is agonizing—

"Hey."

I'm drawn fuzzily from my work (how long have I been in here?) to see you sitting on the couch next to me, grinning slightly. My eyes soften at the sight of you before I slam a friendly smile over my features.

"Hey. Sorry, thought I'd get this done so I won't bog us down," I say, rubbing my quill a little between my fingers.

"Harry," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "You're not '_bogging us down'_. Prat." I feel a shiver of warmth at the fondness of your tone. "Anyway, I renewed this for you—" you hold out a paperback "—I hope you don't mind, but it's really good, and I think you'd like it," you hurry on, uncertainty on your face again.

You can't possibly know how much I love you right now—my hands are trembling and I shove them under my legs to stop them; my heart is beating so loudly I can't believe you don't hear it; my face must be as red as a tomato.

Ron, I can't believe you . . . well, maybe it doesn't seem like much to you, but the fact that you even thought of me at _all_ when you were reading makes me . . . makes me almost sure that I have a place in your heart. Even if it's just as a friend, I don't think knowledge of much else could make me this happy. How to kill Voldemort, maybe, but, Ron . . .

I will my hand steady and reach to take it from you. _Magic's_ _Pawn_ it reads in faded letters. I look straight into your eyes and let as much of my happiness as I dare show shine in my own.

Your smile after that is enough to keep me alive forever.


	5. Chapter V: Comforts Unexpected

Chapter V: Comforts Unexpected

The setting sun is still barely tinting the sky a brilliant blue, but your eyes are brighter. That's all I can think about as I lie outside on the hot grass, eyes scratchy and hands clammy. You're not here—and I _hate_ myself for this Ron. You'll barely be gone five minutes, but I'm shaking and I feel like something's been ripped away from me. I can't even let you out of my sight to escort your mum without panicking!

I draw in a shuddery breath. The sun should do a better job with the sky. None of the dawns I've ever seen can compare to you one whit and oh god it's been five minutes and you were just accompanying her to a friend's house and . . .

Breathe, Harry, breathe . . .

The grass is cold now, and I'm getting there: the sun's set now and even though the sky is still glowing I feel like something's missing from the sky.

I stay for another minute, then I can't help it. I stumble up off the grass and into the house. I'm sorry, Ron, but I keep getting these flashes of my dream, and I . . . I just want to make sure.

It's cold inside the house, too, which strikes me as odd. I can't bring myself to dwell on it; instead I hurry to the couch and worm my way into the cushions, staring anxiously at the fireplace. I can't even begin to feel embarassed about this, because my worry is taking up far too much space. I can't---I break off that thought with an odd muffled choking sound. I'm horrified when I realize it's a kind of sob.

To distract myself, I reach out my violently shaking hand and pick up _Magic's Pawn_. It's good—I've read the first few pages in the days I've been here—and for awhile it almost calms me. Even if I keep looking up at the fireplace every few minutes.

Next thing I know the words are blurring on the page and god, I don't want to fall asleep, Ron what if my dream comes true while I'm asleep; I'll never forgive myself . . .

_Oh no. No. The bodies; the sky; where are you oh please. Please don't let Voldemort have you, please I'm running as fast as I can. Don't die on me. Don't. Oh god oh god where are you NO! He's there, he's there and he's holding you your eyes all red god no where are my beautiful blue eyes oh god no NO NO STOP! RON!_

Harry! Harry!

"Harry!"

With a horrible shuddering gasp I lurch off the couch oh god it was just a dream wasn't it? Oh, where _are_ you, no, please . . . !

"Harry!" Your voice high and urgent and oh god. Oh god you're here. You're safe. Safe.

"Ron!" I gulp, eyes burning to search for you. You're here; safe; you're right there in front of me, red hair and beautiful blue eyes and _alive_. I couldn't stop my tears if I tried, and I'm sure my hand is reaching out for all on its own—

You take me in your arms and I sob desperately into your shoulder. I'll never be able to explain to you how relieved I am that you're here. Alive.

I cry and cry until I can't any more. The world is so quiet now—all I can hear is my reflexive half-sobs and your wonderful soft breaths. I can feel you breathing and it helps, because I'm sure you're alive. And I love you; how I love you for being alive._  
_  
"Harry?" you ask, gently. I nod lightly in the haven of your arms—I'll have to pull back soon, even thought it might kill me. Because if I stay . . .

"What were you dreaming of?" you ask. Your voice is perfect. Smooth. Loving. I stop that thought before it can hurt me. I don't want to tell you, I just want to stay here forever.

"Harry."

I sob. "Ev'ry-one's dead. I-I-I'm look-look-ing for y-you. He's go-got you. He-He-He ki—he ki-kills you and you're de-dead and I can't sta-sta-sta-_stand_ it and-and-and—"

"Shh, Harry," you break in softly. You pull me closer and I shudder. You're so warm and perfect and I can't stay in your arms or I'll never leave, Ron.

"Le-let me—go," I manage, pushing back from you weakly. This is killing me—it's been so hard to sit across the room from you and pretend my heart isn't forcing itself into tiny pieces of glass because I can't touch you. It's been so hard to pretend I don't feel a torturous wrench every time you smile and I know you'll never love me. It's been too hard to pretend this isn't killing me, even to myself—I _love_ you—

You're frowning. Please stop frowning.

"Why?"

Oh god. "I can't—I can't—" I whisper, quaking. I'm trying to tell you more, trying to come up with _something_ to tell you but I'm drawing a blank. You look hurt—please stop. Please, Ron. Smile.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I wish I could say that instead, "I love you."

Pain and terror rush through me the instant the words leave my mouth and scrambling hurriedly I push myself off the couch and as far away from you as I can because if I don't I'll die and what have I done what have I _done_!

The stillness hurts me, like a horrible crushing wall and oh god. Ron. I love you but I think I'm dying and I could just about kill myself now and—

Suddenly you're next to me, a ballast of warmth pressed up against my side and fingers laced firmly in mine. I'm confused and shivering and oh I love you more than ever but why? Why are you not running?

"Harry," you say firmly. "Look at me."

My heart aches at the thought, but face pinched, I look at you anyway. Your clear blue eyes stare into my own intently. I can feel your breath on my face.

"I love you, too."

You're so close and you lean in to press a soft, dry kiss to the corner of my mouth. Fire blooms beneath my lips and I—

I'm wordless.

You reach up a hand to fumblingly stroke the side of my face. Your fingers are lightly callused and they send tendrils of heat through me. I don't dare try to ask any of the questions racing through my mind, because if I speak I might shatter this perfection. I'm trying to breathe, and my heart must be beating a million meters per minute, and I feel like something's unfurled wings inside me—

Suddenly you kiss me again, and I can breathe. I gasp, taking you in—your hair, your skin, your voice, your eyes—you are so intoxicating, you're breathing hotly on my skin. And I'm finally alive again.

But, "Why?" I almost don't believe it, but I've hoped too much to let it go. I don't doubt your words too much; I don't doubt that you . . . love me. Love me in some way. . . I just don't understand how you could.

Silently—I'm sure I'm gripping your hand too hard but you don't say a word, and I can't bare to let go—you pull _Magic's_ _Pawn_ off the table and flip to end. You pull a crumpled piece of paper from the very back and slowly press it into my hand.

_Harry-_

I've been trying to figure out how to say this for ages, but it's—_well, this is the best you are going to get. After all the ripped up drafts in my dustbin, I think I know the best way to start is directly and I'm only stalling . . ._

Harry I love you.

Yeah, I love you. I love everything about you, like how strong you are. I don't mean physically. You . . . you can survive just about anything Harry. You've been buffeted around too much, and I think if I were you I would have died by now, but you—_you keep on going, pulling through every challenge you're given._

I love how brilliant you are. It's not the same as Hermione's cleverness, but you're brilliant none-the-less. It only takes you a second to figure something out if we don't have Hermione there with us, and you've got a talent for explaining things that she doesn't.

I love your compassion—_how you care about everybody unless they prove over and over you shouldn't. You never pick fights like I do; you're so levelhead._

That barely covers it all, Harry. The truth is, I could spend pages and pages describing how and why I love you.

Harry, you are my anchor. Every time something goes wrong, you're right there with me, calm and pushing me through my fears and just being there_ for me._

I'm sorry, I've never been very good with words, so this sounds pretty stupid. But I have to say it anyway. If I had to pick one person to spend the rest of my life with, it would be you. You make me laugh, you make me think, you make me feel alive. I couldn't live without you, and I can't stand skulking around like this—_so I wrote this. I really . . . I love you, and I really, really hope you love me too. Because I think I could die happy if you did._

If you . . . feel the same, come to the orchard I showed you on Friday.

Love,  
Ron

Tremulously, I raise my head. I'm sure you can see this—wordless joy, amazement, breatheless wonder—in my eyes.

"I was going to wait until you finished," you tell me, eyes filled with nervousness and concern and love. "Then I thought now might be better."

_What about Hermione, and the rest of your life, and everything else, and what people will say? _I think. I can't help but wonder if (and hope so much I nearly burst) you'd really go through it all for me. And the word trecherously stumbles from my mouth; "But . . . "

You grasp my hand in yours and smile warmly. As if somehow reading my thoughts, you say, "Don't worry about it. Those are just little things—technicalities. None of that matters."

My stomach flips, and my shoulders lighten, and though it still seems so unreal, I relax. Tentatively, I lean forward into you, and say, "I love you."

"I love you, too," you reply softly, as the last fading sunlight illuminates our clasped hands.


End file.
